


Watchdog

by cornix



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Future Fic, Sandor has Things to deal with, Some angst, it could have been smut, mostly just Sandor, post-adwd, short but sweet, so many opportunities wasted, this could have been fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-13 00:19:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10502508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornix/pseuds/cornix
Summary: It's redemption he wants, he tells himself. But why then, is he only seeking it from her?





	

_I’ve been watching for long enough, now_ , Sandor thinks, but still he dares not move. He’s been huddled behind the grey boulders on the hill for hours now, Stranger tied to a tree in the woods behind him. The vast camp below seems to stretch as far as his eyes can see in the open, wind-swept landscape. As evenfall darkens the sky, braziers light up like stars between the dark tents. Sounds of merrymaking mingles with the moaning and occasional scream from the barber surgeons’ tents. The battle was yesterday, and the vast army camped before him stands victorious. _They’ll leave on the morrow. I need to make my move now_.

He curses himself and his cowardice, and keeps watching by pure habit. _You’ve always just been watching, haven't you, dog?_ snarls a voice in his mind, and it’s so deep and vicious it could as well belong to his brother. Sandor casts a frantic glance behind him. _Gregor is dead,_ he thinks. _And still you do nothing but watch_ , the voice answers.

And it’s true. Sandor cannot recall many moments in his life where he’s actively made a decision for his own sake and not from what his surroundings tell him to do. Even as a child, he knew to always observe Gregor, to scan his posture for any sign of rage, for a slight tensing in the shoulders, or a balled up fist. The habit to watch others stuck. And years later, that same habit made him notice the signs in a golden little boy even when the boy’s own mother saw nothing but good in her child. Little Prince Joffrey was prone to temper tantrums, like many children. But unlike most children’s tantrums, Joffrey’s always ended with someone getting hurt. Usually his little brother, whose wailing only made things worse. Tommen Baratheon was trained from an early age to cry silently.

_Unlike her_. Sandor remembers the little bird in the beginning, a bright thing that had grown up adored by everyone around her. It was no wonder he hated her. Her, her brothers who would no doubt grow up handsome and righteous and strong, even the little she-wolf who, though wilder, still had that air of always getting what she wanted in the end. Them and their _pets_. Sandor’s pets always ended up strangled when he was little, just like Prince Tommen’s kittens.

No, he doubts anyone had ever told the little bird to _shut up shut up SHUT UP_ when she cried. At least not before she came to the capital. Unbidden, images of her starts flooding his mind. How she’d wail and rage and throw herself against the door in her grief. In her conviction that this was _wrong,_ that surely the world should be _just_ and _fair_.

That ended quickly. She was not a slow learner, he has to admit, only stubborn in her beliefs. Even as those wide blue eyes turned empty and distant, she kept chirping her courtesies, kept looking at him with that stupid trusting gaze. Her lies were as unconvincing as her smiles, but still they kept spilling from her mouth. _As well they should_. King’s Landing is a filthy swamp, and if you’re intent on not getting dirty, you’ll never reach the other side.

He wonders if Joffrey actually believed her lies, bad as they were. The king must have known he’d never win with her, he _must_ have. You can’t call it winning if your victim thanks you for beating her with a tremulous smile on her lips. Unless he’d one day manage to break through that hard shell of courtesy the little bird would cloak herself in, he’d never truly have defeated her. Even the king must have seen that.

But through beatings and humiliations, Sandor stood silently by and watched her. Him, along with the entire court. _For all your despising knights so much, you do tend to follow their example_. The cruel voice is there again, and again it is right. Along with Kettleblack and Swann he watched her get beaten, and with all the rest of them he followed the movement of her pale breasts as they threatened to spill over the edge of the necklines of her too-tight dresses. _I saved her life,_ he thinks, with an odd mix of anger and pride. _I protected her_.

Sandor did not protect her from the Imp. He did not protect her from Littlefinger. _I can make up for it_. Taking a deep breath, he climbs back down the hill and unties Stranger to lead him by the reins on foot. A lone stranger is no threat to such a large camp. A lone stranger can easily slip in between the long rows of tents.

The sight of two bodies dangling from a tree twists his gut with bitterness. _Death never bothered you before, dog,_ says the voice, _or is it only because it’s_ here? The chirping little bird from King’s Landing would have fainted at the sight. _Would she? She saw her father’s head on a spike_. And there it is. Another wave of bitterness rise up in him. He watched her then, too, watched her face twist in horror time and time again, until she learned that every time she asked _”who would do such a thing?”_ , the answer was always _”anybody.”_ Sandor remembers how those big Tully blue eyes would glaze over at the sight of cruelty, how her gaze would slip through everything and focus on something beyond this world.

He wraps his cloak tightly around himself and pulls his hood down even lower, suddenly gripped by some chill. It’s close, now, the centre of the camp, the imposing royal tent rising above all the rest. Beside it is a smaller tent, bright blue with the banner of a mockingbird flying above it. The sight sends another chill down his spine. _I’ll have to do something about that_ , he thinks, before he scoffs at himself. Why would _she_ ever heed the counsel of _the Hound?_ Sandor can only hope Littlefinger does not have his claws too deep in the little bird’s mind. He knows, of course, that Petyr Baelish must have had some important part in all this. The Queen in the North’s campaign to reclaim everything from the Neck to the Gift has been very successful so far, and clever though she has proven herself, he does not think Sansa Stark was ever properly trained in the ways of war.

_Now all that remains to be seen is if she’ll have you_. Have him. He scoffs. Not in a thousand winters would she want him in _that_ way, she made that clear on the night of the Blackwater. But he does have a sword to offer, and he hopes it will be enough. _It has to be enough_.

Sandor ties his horse to a post and pauses. Should he sneak around the tent and see if there is a more discreet way to enter? The thought almost makes him laugh. _Discreet_. Though he can move silently when he needs to, a man of his size cannot enter the tent of the Queen unnoticed. There is only one way he can do this.

With hands that almost don’t tremble ( _from the cold_ , he tells himself) he pulls down his hood and straightens his back. With determined steps he approaches the royal tent, only to be stopped by the guard outside. A tall, gangly lad, probably no older than six-and-ten. _Is this how they guard their queens in the North?_ But the boy stands his ground, grey Northern eyes firmly fixed on Sandor.

”Who goes there?” The boy asks in a manner that tells Sandor he’s very much trying to seem older than he is.

”Sandor Clegane.”

A flash of fear in the boy’s eyes. ”I…”

”I wish to speak to your Queen.”

”I… Ser, I do not think -”

”I’m no Ser,” he rasps, ”and why don’t you let _her_ decide for herself?”

And like a blessing from the Seven, had he believed in them, a soft, mellifluous voice calls from inside the tent. ”Gerren? Who’s there?” Her voice is deeper than he remembers it, because of course it is. She’s a Queen now, not a frightened little bird.

A gush of wind causes the tent flap to shift, and for a glorious second, Sandor catches a glimpse of glowing red hair. He can’t stop himself.

”Little bi- Your Grace.” He calls out louder than he means to, and is ashamed but not surprised to hear pleading in his voice.

A long silence. _Stupid old dog. Of course she doesn’t want to see you. She’ll have your head_. Anxiety racks his mind and grows only worse with every passing second, until:

”Let him in.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was supposed to focus on my Real Writing for a while, but then my hand slipped. I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think!


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